Dog-Gone It

So, yeah, some days I think we're further down this trail of actually living in the year 2011 than others. Some days I think we're still living in the Dark Ages, the Stone Age, when things were rough, tough and horrible. But this is, indeed, the year 2011. When we are supposed to respect others. When we are supposed to draw attention to living and enjoying life. Being productive and progressive. And then the wind gets knocked out of our sails........

About 100 Husky dogs were slaughtered execution style in British Columbia last spring. After all of the hoopla and money surrounding the Olympic tourism died down and the visitors all returned home. Outdoor Adventures in Whistler, BC, is in a bit of trouble. As they should be. Their website makes note of the fact that they have suspended dog sledding for the time being. They ordered one of their employees to shoot 100 dogs and to dispose of them. And he did, to preserve his job. The investigators are now digging up the mass grave to continue in their investigation -- to decide if the dogs were even dead when they were placed into the grave. Rumors have it that at least some were still alive and clamoring to get out of the giant hole they were put into. And I love the part in the Outdoor Adventures Environmental web page where they talk about how much attention they give to recycling, that they are a carbon-neutral company, and that they are an "industry leader in stewardship and sustainability." Really? Really? Bullshit. I'm so sick of coverups and corporate crap. Fancy websites mean nothing if you've just ordered the shooting of 100 beautiful dogs to profit your bottom line.

Here is the Press Section of the Outdoor Adventures website attempting to explain how they were really trying to make this whole operation come off in a pretty, healthy, happy way....only killing the dogs that were "too old, sick, or not adoptable." What? You were employing dogs that were old and sick? Ugh. Oh, and the website also says that the company is "shocked and appalled" at the accusations. Umm hum, I'll just bet that they are. And here is an editorial by The Province journalist Jon Ferry.

You're worthless. Zeros. Nothings. I will speak up for the dogs any day over you. Our world is a mess. We're upside down, good looks bad and bad appears good. And now we're minus 100 beautiful, amazing and charming creatures in this world. Makes me so proud to be a human being living here on planet earth.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

A driver must have faith. In his talent, his judgment, the judgment of those around him, physics. A driver must have faith in his crew, his car, his tires, his brakes, himself.

The apex sets up wrong. He is forced off his usual line. He carries too much speed. His tires have lost grip. The track has gotten greasy. And he suddenly finds himself at turn exit with no more track and too much speed.

As the gravel trap rushes at him, the driver must make decisions that will impact his race, his future. To tuck in would be devastating: wrenching the front wheels against their nature will only spin the car. To lift is equally bad, taking grip away from the rear of the car. What is to be done?

The driver must accept his fate. He must accept the fact that mistakes have been made. Misjudgments. Poor decisions. A confluence of circumstance has landed him in this position. A driver must accept it all and be willing to pay the price for it. He must go off-track.

To dump two wheels. Even four. It's an awful feeling, both as a driver and as a competitor. The gravel that kicks up against the undercarriage. The feeling of swimming in muck. While his wheels are off the track, other drivers are passing him. They are taking his spot, continuing at speed. Only he is slowing down.

At this moment, a driver feels a tremendous crisis. He must get back on the gas. He must get back on the track. Oh! The folly!

Consider the drivers who have been taken out of races by snapping their steering wheels, by overcorrecting to extremes and spinning their cars in front of their competitors. A terrible position to find oneself in.

A winner, a champion, will accept his fate. He will continue with his wheels in the dirt. He will do his best to maintain his line and gradually get himself back on the track when it is safe to do so. Yes, he loses a few places in the race. Yes, he is at a disadvantage. But he is still racing. He is still alive.

The race is long. It is better to drive within oneself and finish the race behind the others than it is to drive too hard and crash.

From The Art of Racing in the Rain, a novel by Garth Stein.

I've just finished this novel. The first four chapters had me hooked. Easily. The book is written from the point of Enzo, the family dog. Any pet lover will find himself locked into pet feelings, emotions, and behaviors. The tie, the bond, the connection, between a human being and a pet is powerful. But then the book takes a few bends and twists that left me less than interested. Stein is a great author -- capable of delving into theories, patterns and thoughts that only pet owners will understand. But parts of the book felt sort of high-schoolish and immature compared with the first few amazingly deep chapters. I liked parts of this book so much that I'd like to recommend it. But much of it left me feeling like I was reading a simple sort of creative writing piece in school. Nonetheless, for anyone struggling in their life, or for pet owners, or for those facing trials or troubles, you'll be able to capture more than a few ideas on how to right yourself, center yourself......on what's worthwhile in this life and what is not. And that, my friends, is exactly what I needed in this time of my life. A bit of centering, correction, help.

The Longest Day

The longest day of the year is today -- at least here in the north. Solstice. What a nice reflection to consider that the the very thing that warms us is around the longest today. Well, the very thing that is supposed to be warming us, perhaps I should say. It's been the wettest June on record -- after a very wet May. No worries. It doesn't matter to me, really. Except that I would love some time on the beach.

This past weekend was Portland Pride. I'm exhausted -- in fact, I'm sick. Totally congested and feeling like an 18-wheeler hit me. For the very first time, my company sponsored a float in the Portland Pride parade and then a booth at the festival as well. Really exciting stuff! I'm very proud of the work group I spend much of my life with. We are also one of HRC's Best Companies to Work For. I was really busy talking with people, handing out free stuff, marching up the streets of downtown Portland, even seeing passengers that have been on previous flights with me! We even had two of our vice presidents attend and help us out!

My iPhone 4 order was tediously placed last week -- on the 16th (since the servers were totally whacked out on the 15th). So, it's "In Process" and not yet "Shipped." I'm waiting. Wondering. Wishing and hoping. I'm afraid that the 24th will pass me by. But, then again, it's only a phone. I need to keep on saying that.

We met Molly yesterday. And our hearts were totally stirred up. She looks strikingly like Mason. Molly and Mason. It has a nice ring to it. Except that Molly has not been taken care of. She is 8 years old, lived outside her whole life, is not potty trained, and has been under the supervision of dog breeder in southern Oregon who didn't take care of her (is it wrong to murder people?) She has a heart murmur and no teeth (which makes her tongue stick out of her mouth). We just can't do it...and, believe me, we have talked about it. But she's a doll. I think we may sponsor her "online." I think that Mason would be a very good younger brother for Molly.

Introducing Mason....

I must freely admit, that ten years ago when my honey and I met I was not an animal person. I wouldn't let them near me, touch me, hated shedding and hair, the smell, and the thought of a bare naked ass looking at me was not pretty. Didn't want them near me, at all. Over the last couple of years, on many occasions, I've looked up to see my honey shaking his head while looking at me saying, "I can't believe what I'm seeing." Me, petting a dog or saying hi to a passing pet. And still, I have not wanted my own. But I'm afraid it happened violently and quickly. I have been stricken. Yesterday we spotted a cute little thing in a shop window that clung to me like you know what on you know what. Today, we went back to look and, guess what, the sign in the window said "Hold for Michelle." I have to say, my heart sunk (but I'll deny it to the end lest anybody see my softer side). The nice shop lesbian lady redirected us to a cute little boy Poodle-Maltese mix born on November 1. We've named him Mason. He's home now, freshly bathed, new bed, and seems exhausted. It's been quite a day for him on, this, his first day in a new home. It's the very first animal that I've ever purchased or owned, other than the ones we had growing up. 45 years old and a brand new kid. Amazing. We've got neighbors coming over in a few hours for a champagne toast and snacks in celebration of our new domestic partnership. And, boy oh boy, won't they be surprised. Married and child. All in the same week. Baby pics are here.